


Forest for the Trees

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Nogitsune Stiles, Nogitsune Trauma, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-11
Updated: 2014-07-08
Packaged: 2018-01-15 10:21:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1301404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is possessed by the Nogitsune; the pack rallies to trap him before it reaches the zenith of its power, but Derek ends up trapped with him. Time is running out, the protection won't hold forever, and Derek alone holds Stiles' fate in his hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Partition

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first I've written in a good five years and my first foray into Teen Wolf and fics, so please bear with me. Friendly comments and advice welcome.
> 
> Tags and warnings are subject to change. I have a few more chapters already written and I'm sorry to say that things are going to get worse - way worse - before they get better: more graphic violence, suffering, angst, and elements of sub/dom are likely to

The very last grain of mountain ash settled in place, closing the circle and sealing their fate. The air, which had been heavy and humid, crackling with power, was now fresh and clear. A gentle breeze streamed through the vault and raised the tiny hairs on the back of Derek’s neck, but beyond an odd, musty staleness, he couldn’t smell a thing. His pupils dilated automatically in a bid to let in more light but he still struggled to make sense of the shapes around him – the room was darker, suddenly. His senses were muted, dulled…human. It had worked.

His back was turned on Stiles from whom he had been fleeing. Fleeing. From StIles. Just a moment earlier the teenager’s hands had been swathed in an ethereal blue light. A moment earlier Allison and Scott had been calling Derek’s name as the whole room glowed in the light emanating from Stiles, surrounding his whole body and lifting him into the air. A moment earlier, Stiles was going nuclear, ready to bring the whole building crashing in on itself, in on Scott, Allison, Isaac, the twins. Derek couldn’t blame them for sealing the enchantment with him still inside the circle. The mountain ash’s magic worked in tandem with the ancient symbols Lydia had scratched onto the walls in chalk – walls of hectolitre, which themselves supressed the supernatural.

They had all made it out of the bank, in various states of alive. They ran hard and fast, retreating, just has he had taught his pack. Hide and heal. Isaac had looked worse for wear and from the way one of the twins had slung the other of his shoulder, he feared that he may have a nasty back injury. Deaton had been bleeding pretty heavily, but he wouldn’t take responsibility for that, he couldn’t. He was a grown man, an emissary circling the pack, and he had agreed to be the bait in order to ‘keep the balance’. He knew the risk. Humans should know better than to mix themselves in the supernatural. Stiles was a case in point. 

The battle hadn’t lasted for long. They were still unsure why the Nogitsune was so keen to get its claws – or Stiles’ nervously chewed, blunt nails, in this case – into the vet but it had been lured easily enough into the bowels of the bank. 

Within two minutes the air was filled with the scent of burning flesh, with electricity arcing back and forth across the room at dizzying speeds, coursing through a wolf’s body at one moment then feeding back to Stiles the next. It coiled around him and threw blue light against the walls, the tiny crystals within scattering light all around, like a vintage disco ball. The ground beneath their feet had trembled and the roof above them had strained under its own weight. Dust began to cascade down from the ceiling as an ominous rumble of thunder ripped through the room. The hundreds of safety deposits locked into the wall began to shake violently in place. It was no wonder, then, broken, beat and the building collapsing, that the pack had ran.

And then – poof. Silence. Calm.

“Am I wrong, or am I stuck in the body of a skinny-ass 17 year old kid without a millennia’s worth of power harvested from the misery and pain and destruction of everything and everyone around me?”

“Yes.” Derek’s relief was evident. Without his wolf speed and strength he was still more than a match for the 160-pound mess of limbs at his feet. The Nogitsune’s strength was gone and now Stiles picked himself up in that gangly, limp way that only a lanky teenager can manage. All the control and self-assuredness that the Nogitsune had exerted was gone. He had moved with purpose and strength, with every muscle of Stile’s body tensed and ready to execute the spirit’s demands. Without his power, the Nogitsune looked soft and malleable. He looked like Stiles again. Derek cocked his head out of interest, carefully surveying the boy. 

“This…won’t hold me for long.” He said with a sigh. He started walking the circumference of the circle with his fingers outstretched, prodding at the barrier which flared red under his touch. He was testing it for weakness and found none. Not yet, at least. Derek turned slowly on the spot, following Stiles’ every move. He felt uneasy without his heightened senses, unable to sense what was coming. Where were the others? They couldn’t be far. The building was still standing. They must have known the druid’s magic had worked. Or maybe they thought Stiles had taken care of Derek and was blazing a path in their direction, hunting them down.

“Just a few hours. Now, what do mortal teenage boys do to pass the time these days? Stiles likes to read. Play Call of Duty. And porn! Ah yeah, Stiles likes to get down and dirty to the porn. I’m guessing this place doesn’t have wifi, right?” A smile curled on those soft lips of Stiles, lips which never seemed to meet, always open and inviting…lips which he moistened with a dart of his tongue. He just seemed so Stiles. 

They had taken him for granted. This operation, the plan, the protective runes worked onto every surface in the room, had all been squirrelled away in his notes before he lost all autonomy. It was because of Stiles that his own heart was still beating safely in his chest. Chris Argent’s plan was to rip it out and (quite literally) serve it to the Oni on a silver platter. Derek took the steps necessary to ensure that that wouldn’t happen. Allison wouldn’t be best pleased to find her father beaten, bloody and bound in her closet but she’d get over it when she realised it meant she still had a Stiles.

“Horny little fuckers, teenagers these days, especially Stiles.” The Nogitsune mused. He slipped his right hand to his groin and started rubbing his cock through his jeans. “They just can’t seem to keep their hands off of each other. Except for me, I guess. No good touch for Stiles!”

The left hand went up his shirt and exposed a glimmer of marble-white flesh which glowed in the moonlight. Derek could tell when his fingers closed around his nipple and tugged on it lightly because Stiles let out a deep moan which morphed into a self-satisfied chuckle as he undid his belt one-handed.

“Stiles the virgin. Not even Lydia will touch him, and she’s been around the block, dude, she really has.” He popped open a couple of buttons and the dark fabric of his loose boxers peaked through.

“Get your hands off of him.” Derek growled, rooted in his spot. He refused to let his guard be shaken. The Nogitsune was trying to throw him off his game. Deaton had warned him them all that possessive spirits were lewd and disgusting, that they’d bend their host’s bodies into compromising positions to shock and disgust. To create the kind of chaos they thrived on. 

“This is all the action he’s ever gonna see man, loosen up! Just let him have a good time, just this once! He hasn’t got much life – ah that feels so good – left in him...may as well…”

Stiles started digging deeper into his boxers, pushing his hand far back so his fingers were no longer wrapped around his cock but now pressing against his arsehole. Another tweak of his nipple, another moan and his breath caught in his throat. Derek read his body and watched it tense up then relax again. Anger swelled inside his chest, knowing that he’d worked a finger inside. “May as well enjoy himself.”

The Nogitsune was violating Stiles, using him, putting him on show. He felt sick with rage, quivering in place but refusing to be drawn into whatever he had planned. He blinked, tempted to shut his eyes and block out everything he could see and hear. But then, convulsing up and down, riding himself, Stiles opened his heavy lidded eyes, looked over at Derek, stared deeply into his eyes…and then whispered his name in pleasure.

The werewolf – no, human, for now - crossed the ten feet between them in seconds and landed a punch on Stiles’ left cheek. Derek took advantage of the initial shock of the blow to grab at his wrists and pull his hands away from his body but he recovered quickly, too quickly, wriggling free with a giggle and going straight back to take care of his straining erection. 

Stiles tried to manoeuvre himself around, his back turned and pressed against Derek, so he could carry on his self-abuse. He laughed hysterically with a high pitched girlish shriek as he avoided Derek’s attempts to pin his arms to his side. It was a disturbing childish giggle, the laugh of a spoilt brat getting hold of exactly what it wanted. One of Stiles’ hands actually grabbed back and twisted around Derek’s arm, his thumb leaving a sticky trail of precome in its wake.

“Come on Derek; give an old friend a hand…” Stiles breathed out and tried to force Derek’s hand down. “You just know Stiles wants it.” 

Something snapped. Frustration got the better of Derek, and the wolf within, distant and lonely, handled the problem the best way it knew how: a firm head-butt took care of the matter and saw that Stiles fell to the floor unconscious. Derek stumbled back a step from the impact and massaged the spot where he made contact; he’d be sore for hours without his healing abilities but still, he was looking better than the teenager.

Stiles was sporting a cut on his cheek where his initial punch had landed and a red welt was forming where their heads had collided. His body was twisted uncomfortably on a pile of leaves which rustled in that breeze. His pants were around his ankles and his hand underneath his boxers, still wrapped around his now-softening cock. Derek kicked him onto his back and extracted his hand from the wet depths of his boxers, before trying to pull up his jeans. Stiles was still entitled to a certain degree of dignity, no matter how hard the Nogitsune tried to rip it away from him. 

Stiles wasn’t as easy to move around without his super wolf strength, but Derek busied himself and managed to pull everything up. The situation was ludicrous, insane – a supremely powerful spirit lost its mojo for five minutes then decided the biggest weapon in its arsenal was masturbation? Ludicrous as it were, watching Stiles’ face contort in pleasure as this spirit, that demon forced its way into his friend, possessed his body totally and fully, violated him right before him, had pushed him to rage. And if he understood Deaton properly, it was that kind of heightened emotion the Nogitsune feasted on and drew power from. To keep it out of action, Derek had to stay in control.

Still shaking with anger, he took a deep breath and tried to centre himself. He bent over double and got to work buttoning up Stiles’ jeans, careful not to take any more liberties with his body. It was like that, bent double with his fingers working on his belt buckle, that Stiles and Allison found him, peering into the dark from the doorway of the vault.

“This is not what it looks like.”


	2. Rocket

“It smells like –“ Scott was cut off by the sharp elbow he took to the ribs, courtesy of Allison. They lingered carefully on the other side of the barrier, both their hair standing up to attention. While the static had cleared within the circle it was clear that the air was still charged outside. 

“It was the Nogitsune. He…it…wasn't…behaving itself.” Allison’s eyes narrowed knowingly but Scott looked as lost as ever, his face etched in its usual state of bewilderment. His senses were affronted by the stench of precome and sweat which seeped through the room, permeating it with a heavy musk. The sticky stain on Derek’s forearm glinted in the moonlight which shone through the skylight and caught Scott’s eye, forcing the older wolf to wipe himself clean on Stiles’ plaid shirt with a sharp clearing of his throat. “He’s unconscious.”

“For now,” The hunter tried to tease down her hair by running her fingers through it a couple of times. Though her eyes betrayed her anxiety, worried that Stiles would not stay contained long, that the bonds which tied him in place would soon snap, her jaw jutted out, set, determined. “We need to get moving. Isaac has taken Deaton to the hospital, the others are holed up down the street, healing. They’ll be back here soon.”

“Moving? How? I mean…what do we do when they get here?”

Scott simply asked the question on everyone’s mind. Stiles’ notes – the Nogitsune’s - had revealed that some great plan was already in motion, ready to reach its climax that very night, and had given the pack the tools to temporarily strip the Nogitsune of its power and hold it fast, but no one knew how to extract the spirit. With Kira’s mother dead, her specialist knowledge was long gone and in her absence the mysterious Oni seemed to have faded into the shadows for good. They were just treading water now, waiting for somebody to them a lifeline. 

“It said it could only be held for a couple of hours. We don’t want to underestimate it again. Let’s call it an hour.”

“It? That’s Stiles, Derek, ‘it’ is Stiles.” Scott’s eyes flashed red in the dark. Was it a pointed warning, meant to remind him who the Alpha was now?

“We’re out of time.” He took a beat. There was no easy way to say this, to echo what Chris Argent and Boyd had already said. He took that beat to try and centre himself, to keep his voice firm, sensible, authoritative. He didn't quite manage to pull it off. “It is too dangerous. It wants us all dead. The only way to protect the pack, the city, is to do this, Scott. If we do it now, we can be…gentle.”

Scott’s jaw hung agape, his eyes full of fury and a low, rumbling growl in his throat. “How can you even say that! It’s Stiles.”

“No, it’s not –“ He did better this time, his voice stayed steady and didn't crack. Maybe that was because Scott didn't allow him to carry on.

“You fought for him! Two hours ago you were beating Allison’s dad into a bloody pulp and shoving him in a closet – “ “What?!” “ – and now you've what, just changed your mind? You get to decide who lives and dies? Not Stiles, Derek, not Stiles!”

“We don’t have a choice!” Scott was teetering on the edge of the circle now, a claw pressing against the faint red barrier which separated them. He’d broken through mountain ash before, he remembered, testing the strength of the magic. If he could get through he could protect Stiles, fight Derek off. He was stronger now, as an alpha. A true alpha. 

“When will you draw the line? When he kills another innocent again? When he kills one of the pack, when it’s Allison? When will you realise that Stiles is gone and we have NO way of getting him back? Ever.” He’d positioned himself between Scott and Stiles now, his fists balled but his rage contained, for the moment. Rationally, he knew that if the protections scrawled around them could rob the Nogitsune of its powers then not even Scott could force his way through. 

“It won’t kill the Nogitsune,” Scott balked. “It’ll still be out there, looking for another host. Stiles would die for nothing.”

“It’d be weakened,” Allison said softly, placing an equally delicate hand on Scott’s shoulder. “It would need to recharge again. It would buy us more time. It would save lives.”

“Allison…” He took a step back, disbelieving what he was hearing.

“Those scans, Scott. Even without the Nogitsune, even if we could get him back…he’s not well. Y-you… you know what happened to his mother.” Scott jerked back even more violently this time, pushing away the arm she had extended to comfort him again. His heart was in his throat and pumped wildly, sending a wave of adrenaline and testosterone through his body. His muscles quivered and tightened in response to the flood of chemicals which filled him with a primordial, animal anger. His claws grew longer and stronger, his eyes grew pointed and he shifted partially into his wolf.

“No! You don’t use her memory like that, don’t say her name. Don’t use her like a…like a weapon. To …make me put him down like that. Like a fucking dog!” Scott spat his last words out with vitriol, roaring in Allison’s face. She stood her ground bravely enough but turned her face away, unable to look in his eyes and watch his heart break behind them. 

“We’ve already lost him Scott.”

Scott’s patience drained away and in an instant, his wolf reflexes sparked to life. A heavy piece of debris – brick or stone, he didn't even register what it was or how he came to feel its weight in his grip – appeared in his hands. He hurled the projectile through the air and through the barrier with a slight, hot hiss of steam. It caught Derek unawares and connected with his temple. A rugged edge tore against the skin and ripped open his brow in a three inch-long cut. He fell to the ground, reeling from the blow. He felt nothing when he slammed into the marble floor, save for nausea and the warm trickle of blood coursing down his face and matting his stubble. He blinked the sticky redness out of his eyes, not really comprehending what it was, and found them join with Stiles’. In that moment, concussed, dizzy and on the brink of consciousness, he couldn't help but return the smile staring back at him.

Stiles was already awake.


	3. Pretty Hurts

“Scott! What are you doing, Stiles could wake up any second!” Derek’s chest started in a huff of dazed laughter at Allison’s voice. They couldn't see that goofy grin spread wide and proud across Stiles’ face – no wait, he didn't just see that did he - Stiles winked! Did he? He couldn't be sure if the dork had really tried to pull off a wink or if he’d imagined it because he was feeling a bit woozy and there was a white, hot pain pounding in his head. For some reason or other, he knew it was imperative that he straighten himself out and get back on his feet, stretch out and walk it off, but for now he was content to snuggle down in the debris and drift away into a calm sleep.

“Derek can take care of himself. The Nogitsune doesn't have any powers.”

“Neither does Derek and you almost took his head off with that fucking thing!”

“Oh no, don’t tell me that Scott’s turned to the Dark Side too?” Cora chimed in. 

The pack had returned, realising that the immediate danger had subsided. Ethan and Aiden strode in behind Erica while Isaac – always the last, forever the omega – stumbled along behind them in a bit of a panic, pawing at his blood drenched t-shirt. He had left Deaton behind at the hospital with a promise from Melissa that he was going to be just fine, but Deaton hadn't yet left his thoughts.

“I'm not evil.” Scott growled.

“Really? You've got Derek and a Nogitsune trapped, powerless and defenceless, and the one you try to decapitate is Derek? If you’re not evil you’re as thick as mud.” Cora soon found a clawed hand wound tightly around her neck for her comment, Scott’s nails digging into her soft pink flesh and drawing fresh blood. She submitted with a low, deferential growl and he let her go, releasing her weight and retracting his claws.

“No one goes near Stiles. He’s going to make it.” Scott. Peter (where did he appear from?) snorted in response. “You got a problem with that?”

“Yes. Allison is right. Derek was right. We can’t hold him like this forever; we have him weak and vulnerable. Maybe we can’t kill the Nogistune now but this is the only chance we have to really hurt it.”

“It?” Scott screeched again. “Am I the only one who sees our friend there, Stiles? The friend who has risked his life time again for your fucking sorry asses, the only reason most of us are still alive, the only person who has been able to slow down the Nogistune –“ 

“The only person who can stop the Nogistune, Scott. You’re right, he’s smart. Smart enough to have known that when he left those notes, we’d have to…do what we have to do.” Allison spoke in a small voice, moving in front of Cora and Peter as she did. She knew that no matter what she said that Scott didn't have the strength to hurt her and bend her into submission like he had Cora, and could do to Peter. His alpha authority had no hold on her, while his love for her ruled him completely. 

“We should keep him alive.” All eyes turned to Aiden. Since when did he care who lived or died? “I mean, Lydia would freak if I killed Stiles too.”

“And Danny kinda likes Stiles, I think they’re pretty good friends these days.” Ethan took his place beside his brother and behind Scott’s shoulder, as if deciding the fate of Stiles’ life was so simple. A line was being drawn in the sand. The Hale pack against Scott’s. He couldn't help feel Allison was on the wrong side of the divide. 

“We are NOT having this conversation!” Scott roared and his body snapped automatically into a defensive stance; he was crouched down with his knees bent and feet wide apart, grounding him in place and he held his claws out with tensed arms, ready to strike. Though he wasn't as tall as he’d been stood straight, somehow the werewolf seemed to occupy much more space now and the intense heat he was radiating made it clear that the space was his. Nobody could get past him.

“I don’t know what you’re all snarling about, Stiles is fine, just fine. It’s not like anybody can touch him. Except me. Boop!” As if to prove a point, Derek flailed an arm around and tried to bop the teenager opposite him on the nose. Sadly, the haze of concussion was still wreaking havoc on his ability to do, well, just about anything, and so the Nogistune took a finger to the eye instead. It smiled wickedly in response, contorting Stiles’ face into a harrowing grin, but nobody could see it with Derek’s body blocking the line of sight. Derek grinned back. Stiles’ smile was just for him.  
“Well,” Peter began slowly. “That’s not strictly true. And I for one would feel much more comfortable with the kid dead rather than unconscious. So…” Before anyone else had the chance to move Peter had ripped a bow from the quiver hanging loosely around Allison’s shoulder and arched his arm back, straining just for a second before launching the arrow across the room with the full strength of his body. Nobody waited to see if the arrow connected with its target; instead, they sprang into action in a dizzying blur of red, blue and golden eyes.

Allison was the first casualty of the skirmish, knocked aside by a vicious backhanded claw which sliced her cheek and sent her spinning to the floor. Peter was next, with Scott’s fist tight around his throat and lifting him in the air before slamming his whole into the rubble-strewn ground. By this point Aiden and Ethan had surged round both flanks and leapt at Cora. Aiden’s attention was diverted by a bevy of throwing knives which Allison (already recovered) was pulling from God-knows-where and sinking into his huge back. Ethan bowled into Cora and tossed her against the barrier. It sizzled where her bare flesh rubbed against it but she channelled the pain into a powerful kick to his face. Isaac was busy doing something ineffective somewhere.

Mere seconds had passed. So focused was Scott on avenging his friend’s untimely death, he hadn't noticed Stiles was now standing, testing the weight of the arrow in both hands. There was a lot, actually, that was going unnoticed. Perhaps they thought that the sudden spike in humidity was a result of so many hot bodies tugging and scratching and biting at each other. Maybe the low rumble of thunder in the distance was swallowed up by the hisses and growls and shrieks of pain that filled the vault. It was possible that the weight of loss and mourning for their dear friend had plunged them into a rapid lunacy, where all that mattered was carnal revenge. So they fought, oblivious to what they were causing. Chaos. Strife. Pain. 

Stiles’ chuckle grew stronger. He rolled his shoulders back and widened his chest, letting the tickle in his throat break out into a full laugh. He shook out his whole body and stretched it wide. He jumped up and down a couple of times on the spot as if skipping or warming up and gave the arrow in his hand a quick twirl with a wiggle of his fingers. All the while his laugh grew louder and his eyes grew wider, taking in the carnage that was unravelling before his eyes. That air, so cloying and heavy, was now sweet with the stench of fresh blood and sweat. The sweat had nowhere to go any more, so saturated was the vault, that it refused to evaporate and instead dripped off the werewolves’ bodies in thin rivulets. The battle reached a crescendo – Allison’s legs were kicking futilely in mid-air while Ethan choked her, Cora lay panting on the ground and was struggling to pull herself up on her broken leg and Aiden and Scott circled Peter.

And then, with that same girlish squeal of delight Stiles had made struggling in Derek’s arms, the tension – and the heavens above them – broke. A fork of lightning snaked across the sky, and almost instantly, a deep, reverberating crack of thunder followed it. The wolves were all blinded by the sharp blue light which cast long, distorted shadows against the walls, but none of them felt their stomach drop as sickeningly as Scott. A second white line split the sky in two but this time, the glass in the skylight shattered into thousands and rained down on the room below.

Nobody asked any stupid questions (what’s going on? What do we do?), not only because any doubt had been stripped away from their minds, but because a roaring wind ripped through them all, whistling so high that the pack instinctively threw their hands up to their ears to block the sound. They were all knocked out of action. Except for the human. Allison drew her bow back, loaded and ready to shoot, took a slow, deep breath and steadied herself. She felt the wind whip against her hair and adjusted her aim to counter the chilly breeze.

“Don’t shoot, or I’ll kill him,” screamed the Nogitsune over the racket. He had pulled Derek up to his knees and had wrapped his arm around his neck from behind. His spare hand jutted the focused point of the arrow into the crook of his neck. “I mean it, I’ll do it!” He sounded manic, like a daytime soap opera actor squeezing every ounce of drama out of a line. He sounded like nobody believed that he had it in him to murder Derek, but the wake of bodies he’d already left behind proved otherwise.

It was of those bodies, of cops and nurses, of Kira’s mom, that Allison thought as she readjusted her aim one last time and pulled her bow tighter than ever, feeling the strain in her forearm burn and burn until she released the arrow. Her calculations were off at a fraction – as was to be expected as the storm around them simmered, growing closer and closer to its boiling point – but she did what she had to. The arrow pierced Derek’s shoulder and went right the way through flesh and bone, stopping only when it was two inches deep into Stiles’ chest. 

The Nogitsune stumbled back a few clumsy steps and Derek was dragged with him, connected both by arrow and the unrelenting grip he had around his neck. The wooziness clouding his mind was sliced through by that sudden sharp ache of pain, and suddenly he remembered he wasn't in Stiles’ warm embrace and tender embrace, but trapped in the arms of a dark spirit hell-bent on causing misery. He had to act before he lost too much blood and though it was too tempting to sink back into cloud cuckoo land, to drift off to a world where Stiles was lovingly cradling him instead, Derek snapped himself awake and did what he could: he wrapped a hand around the arrow and pushed it back another fraction of an inch, driving it deeper into himself and the Nogistune. The teenager screamed out and jerked backwards, stumbling over rubble, until he’d pulled himself free from the arrow and he and Derek were separated. The werewolf had no strength to stay on his knees without Stiles’ support and he careened over again while Stiles whimpered. No, he that wasn't a whimper. No. He was laughing.

And why shouldn't he be? The gale around them was stronger than ever and another fork of lightening jutted across the firmament. The clouds above broke and rain fell in torrents, unbelievable streams of heavy raindrops falling through the skylight. The rain which didn't fall directly through the broken skylight took a slower but more dangerous path, coursing down the cornices of the walls before starting to drip down them. 

Even the enchantments and charms woven into the fabric of the room hadn't been able to stop the Nogitsune from harvesting power from the chaos which unfolded around it. The Nogitsune was powerful. So powerful that all they had done was lock it in place, like a caged beast, able only to swipe at the prey trapped with it. The spirit wanted more strength, more power, more trouble and pain and hurt and death and misery until everyone and everything around it was destroyed. The spark of electricity in the warehouse, raw and unbridled, had already nourished the brooding demon until he was strong enough to take control of Stiles. The spark of power from lightning, the ever closer lightning which rumbled louder and louder with every passing…the very thought of the Nogitsune wielding that much strength was terrifying. But soon it would be reality.

A trickle of rain seems so harmless. Even the torrential downpour which had soaked all the wolves to their very bones in a matter of seconds seemed to do nothing but make their clothes heavy and their scramble to the edge of the circle a bit slower. The petty squabbles between them had dissolved the moment they realised Stiles was alive. Now, they all clawed at the barrier as one, whatever their intentions – could Stiles be murdered now? Redeemed? – but only Scott could sense how much more pliable the barrier seemed now. He wasn't stung by an indescribable shock of magic as he pushed into it now, just resistance. Resistance like it was made of jelly; it was soft and malleable but there, blocking his path. It felt like it could give way at any moment. And that’s when Scott noticed the walls.

Lydia’s symbols were washed away by the rain. The walls were streaked with white marks where the water had carried away the delicately drawn glyphs which had carried such power. There was residual magic in them, and the mountain ash still looped around Derek and Stiles keeping them fast in place, but little by little their power began to return. Derek could feel the downtrodden wolf within rear its snarling head; his heart beat with renewed vigour and pumped a combination of adrenaline and mystical God-knows-what through his body. The thick, black, opaque veil masking his senses became sheer and finally Derek was up on his feet again, pulling the arrow out of his chest. 

The next fork of lightning hit the building and the last of the symbols’ magic washed away. Scott was pushing harder now; he knew he could get through and put this to an end, he had already forced his way over mountain ash to get to the Darach. He pushed and strained and felt the barrier warp and buckle beneath his hands. Either side of him the other werewolves redoubled their efforts and helped him, gritting their teeth in pain and flashing their eyes yellow. He heard the unmistakable shriek of the Banshee echoing in the far distance – miles away – and his eyes flashed red. The barrier crumbled.

The whole scene had lasted just two minutes, tops. The werewolves’ skirmish, the torrential storm, Allison’s shot and the breach of the circle were mere vignettes of commotion which had been unravelling all around them. Those two minutes had flown by. The next two would not.

Derek had manoeuvred behind Stiles and wrapped his arm around his neck, pulling tight in an ironic reversal of roles which wasn't lost on him. They struggled and fell into the middle of the circle and Stiles, still laughing, choked back his giggles and threw his head back against the older man’s chest. He opened his mouth wide and let out a hollow splutter. He was seconds now from falling into unconsciousness but a bolt of lightning ripped through the open skylight and struck the Nogitsune in his open mouth. Stiles fed off the power, gobbled it up like a ravenous beast, this time, quite literally eating it. The electric charge which should’ve coursed through both him and Derek didn't burn or shock either of them, but instead leaked into the Nogitsune’s reserves, charging his metaphorical batteries and filling him with power. 

Though the Nogitsune was strong, Stiles wasn't. The storm around them abated and became still once more. Besides the gentle trickle of water and the laboured breathing of the wolves, all that could be heard was Lydia’s scream in the distance. A last breath sputtered out of his mouth and then he fell unconscious in Derek’s arms. The wolf didn’t let go. His heart was slowing but still beating strong. It would take another minute and a half, two minutes maybe, until it stopped.

Derek could've broken his neck or torn out his throat or ripped his head off, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Stiles might hallucinate now as his brain was slowly starved of oxygen and his body began to shut down, but he wouldn't be hurting. And more than that, he would still be whole. He didn't want to feel the heat of Stiles’ blood on his skin ever again and he’d watched enough of it be spilt already. It was too bloody, too messy, too…final. This, though…feeling the soft weight of Stiles in his arms, Derek clinging onto him for bodily warmth while his heart froze over, this was almost intimate. Derek hushed reassuring nonsense into his ear, as though he were sending him off to sleep with a lullaby.

The others watched, unmoving. Held in a lover’s embrace, Stiles almost seemed restful, at peace. Every member of the pack could feel the slowing thrum of Stiles’ heart. Allison buried her head into Scott’s shoulder. Silent tears rolled down Cora’s cheeks and the twins shared despairing looks with Scott from each flank. They had always thought their brotherly bond was unique but watching their Alpha crumble inside while standing so strong and stoic, they released that Scott was losing his brother. Lydia could still be heard. Her throat must have been raw and hoarse but she wasn't able to stop, couldn't stop, because only she could vocalise the pain and grief the pack choked back as Stiles died.

Eventually, Derek shuffled to the ground, keeping Stiles between his legs and his head resting against his expansive chest but releasing his wicked grip. Instead he laid his hand over Stiles’ still heart and left it there, waiting for it to spring back into motion. It didn't. 

Exhausted and done in, Derek blinked away the tears which had gathered in his ice blue eyes – not wolf eyes but human, only human eyes could carry the weight of so much pain – and found himself lulled into a dreamless, heavy sleep.


	4. Ghost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon is going batshit crazy, stupid, offensive and a waste of time. Soon the fandom will be the only thing worth investing in :/

When Derek woke, he knew a few days had passed. The shadows cast about the loft were longer and lither than he remembered; the moon was hanging lower than it had been since he’d last been bathed in its light. The low constant thrum of the moon’s pull was lesser now than it was at the bank, its power over him beginning to wane. He was familiar and comfortable in the confines of his bed, but still both weary and wary: he knew the rest of the pack was downstairs, could hear their hearts beating through an otherwise deafening silence. Nobody was talking. Then Derek remembered why.

The ache in his bones flared to life as he instinctively rolled to his side and curled into himself forming a tight ball and drew in a sharp breath of pain. He hated himself for it immediately as he knew the more observant members of the pack would hear him stirring. Derek could not face them now, not ever, not after he’d made the decision they had been too weak to make. He knew he had done right but he didn’t feel right. Nothing about this felt right. Only a floor separated Derek from his pack but a gulf truly existed between them now; Scott, Allison, Lydia, Isaac, Kira and…what was that?

He stopped straining to keep his breath in the steady, heavy pace of a slumbering werewolf and instead crinkled his brow and focused on that scent, of processed food and coconut body wash and jasmine fabric softener. Stiles? Could it be Stiles? The named faltered in his throat. No. Because mixed in with the coconut and jasmine, Derek picked out gunpowder, despair and the heady whiff of whiskey. The Sheriff.

Derek pulled in tighter still and scrunched his eyes together until all he could see was black. He wish he could do the same to his other senses, block them so completely that he wasn’t able to feel the slow, depressed beat of Lydia’s heart. Or smell the hopelessness clinging to Allison. Or hear the tinkle of another measure sloshed into a glass tumbler followed by the hollow thud of an empty bottle onto a table. He wished it all away and purposely tensed every muscle in his body, making them taut and tense, a tightly wound coil of pain and anxiety. He ached all over and it hurt, it cut into him and caused him to draw in shallow, sharp breaths but the more he withdrew into himself and his pain, the less he could feel the others.

Derek had torn Stiles away from them all and he had left behind a vacuum. He didn’t feel any warmth or sense that glow of manic (often misplaced) energy which brought a spark of life, humanity, to the pack. There was no laughter, no smiles suppressed or tongues bitten, no furtive glances or lustful eyes; the air which once was thick with hormones and stress and desire felt oddly flat and one dimensional. The people in the loft still moved, orbiting around each other without something in the centre to draw them in and anchor them in place. They didn’t talk or look or even notice each other, each one simply existing in the moment, in a universe where the sun had gone out. The sun. Son? Oh Christ.

His claws began to break through his fingertips, splitting the tender flesh there open. He let them come out, fraction by fraction, controlling his shift as slowly and painfully as possible. Usually, his werewolf healing would heal those paper-cut wounds but Derek was spent, focussing his energy on every shred of pain that accompanied every shift of bone and muscle. He rolled onto his back again as it cracked in beautifully agony, each vertebra running the length of his torso snapping into place in a tempered succession. When the pain pooled in the small of his back, daring to loosen its grip on him and allowing his thoughts to swim to the fore, Derek rolled his hips and chased his wolf, following it deep. Each hip split and then reformed, the bone fractured with a sickening pop one lazy moment, then knitting together, narrower than before. More lupine. There was a gruesome squelch as his femur slipped from its socket and a hiss of pain escaped his pursed lips; the black wiry hairs that had begun to emerge all over his body shot back into their follicles. 

That pain had been too much and Derek could no longer stand the slow, sharp, stabbing agony that wracked his body. Instead of chasing that wolf deeper inside, he ran from it, letting his body snap and bend and flex back to his human form in mere seconds. A thin sheen of sweat coated his now (mostly) hairless body and he breathed a sigh of relief. He had never shifted so far before. Not even when he tried to escape the wrenching guilt of his family’s loss. But in that single moment Derek realised he had torn another innocent life from another family, from another pack, he could no longer bear the strain of guilt and remorse and he fled from it, seeking solace in the wolf. That was the key to the full shift, to becoming wolf: total abandonment of humanity and all it encapsulated. 

Derek swung his shaky legs ‘round the side of the bed and planted his feet on the floor. He was dressed, but barefoot, in the same clothes as the other night. He played with the hem of his black vest, feeling the fabric beneath his fingertips, remembering that old saying - clothes maketh the man. He harrumphed. Another idiom came to him: a wolf in sheep’s clothing. 

Is that all he was? Was Derek just hiding his wolf under a layer of cotton and a human scowl? Was it the wolf instinct in him which made it so easy to tighten his arm against Stiles’ straining neck and squeeze the life out of him? No, it hadn’t been easy. Easy would have been teeth and claws, blood and muscle. It wasn’t the animal in him which had made him snub out Stiles’ light; it had been the rational, calculating human. Stiles’s life for those of dozens more, people Stiles had loved more than life itself, that was the bargain Derek had struck. He had killed Stiles as a man. And now he was going to face his pack as one. 

Before he lost the courage of his conviction, Derek pushed himself out of the bed and tested his weight on shaky legs. He still ached miserably but he had strength enough to make it to the bedroom door and down the winding staircase. Each thud of his bare feet against each step was in sync with the heavy pounding of his heart against his ribs. He focused on his movements and the steady throb of pain which, oddly, was at its sharpest on his right shoulder, instead of contemplating the reaction he was going to get.

He stumbled into the open plan space and took in the tableau before him. The Sheriff had raised his head at the noise of Derek coming down but didn’t look towards him: his blank eyes lingered on something imperceptible in the distance before he took another glug of whiskey and set the glass down. Lydia hovered behind him, her face drawn and lips pursed disapprovingly but lacking the strength to castigate Stiles’ father. The others were in pairs too; Allison and Isaac, apparently dropping all sense of propriety in the circumstances, were wrapped against each other in the kitchen while Scott and Kira were equally intertwined behind the ratty leather couch which separated Derek from them.

So far, so good. Was it good? There was no tension or anger in the air, just a sense of empty loneliness. Scott’s eyes didn’t flash red when they met Derek’s own, he couldn’t even muster a half-hearted growl. He knew Allison was well equipped with enough wolfsbane-dipped blades to turn him into a pincushion, but she didn’t even twitch towards her weapons when he took another step forward. Isaac stayed in place, looking even less likely to put up a fight than usual: no mean feat. As for the Sheriff…his eyes were still out of focus, distant.  
Nobody moved. Nobody said a word. Nobody’s eyes made contact with any others. Silence ensued. 

“Uh,” someone said, a couple of minutes into the deafening silence. “Is nobody going to tell him that I’m alive?”

“Stiles?”


End file.
